thatrcooper | Entries tagged with au

(This is not a story. It's basically just me screaming ideas at people)

But what do people want out of this? Wicklow deliberately taking his place in Rhoades’ bed? Using those precise, foul little Wicklow words to describe what it does to him when his husband touches him? How he thinks about his kisses? How much he can’t think when Rhoades fucks him? How, when he was alone, after the first time, he tried to use his fingers and it wasn’t the same, and he was furious for wanting it so much? Rhoades isn’t a warrior, but he takes Wicklow. Even when he is gentle, he *whispers, in near shame* conquers him.

And Rhoades just. More turned on then he has ever been in his life. IN HIS LIFE.

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Gods, just, he would do anything for this little barbarian. His small, blue-eyed heathen killer. He would vow into his skin, and against his mouth, and Wicklow would bruise him he’d be holding him so tight, although Rhoades isn’t going anywhere. Conquer you? Rhoades is nearly snarling, or is it purring? Wicklow can’t tell anymore, with his blood on fire. You think I’ve conquered you? And he’d promise it again, and again, anything, anything for his husband.

And yeah, Rhoades would be exactly as emotionally compromised by his new husband as his enemies think–only stronger too, because (being Roman-ish) they didn’t anticipate that Rhoades’ devotion to Wicklow would earn the devotion of Wicklow’s people too. –And they probably also assumed Wicklow was a mindless soldier and nothing more.

This is a mistake.

Rhoades knew the traitors will make their move soon, so he made plans. He has to lure them out to destroy them, and that’s risky, but he and Wicklow cannot fight their common enemy (idk, some other country) until they deal with the betrayal among Rhoades’ men. So he spends a (final) night with his husband, and then invents a problem that needs to be dealt with and sends Wicklow away.

His enemies will think him alone, weaker. He stays in his room, letting them think he is pining for his absent husband. Wicklow is his weakness and his enemies know it. He will use that too, and trust that Wicklow is truly gone when they come for him.

Of course, they might just kill him. Rhoades hadn’t mentioned that very likely possibility to anyone.It would make more sense to keep Wicklow close, and find some other way to draw his enemies to him. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t anticipate his crafty little warrior leaving two of his friends behind to ensure Rhoades’ survival. Or that the attempted coup doesn’t net *all* his enemies. Injured, exhausted, but triumphant, Rhoades makes examples of the ones discovered, and then realizes (as each other talks, because let’s not pretend there is no torture here. Like let’s say it’s fairly obvious Wicklow was intended to die along with him, so yeah, there is torture here. I mean, *Rhoades*) that the plan went higher than he wanted to think, and wherever he sent Wicklow, he did it with the last conspirator at Wicklow;s back.

So Rhoades (and Pilar and Anthony, obviously…although Anthony should really be a “Roman” as well) would ride out to save Wicklow.

(This is so cheesy and I don’t care.) and they wind up in the hands of the other enemy. The original one. The one Wicklow and Rhoades got married to symbolically unite their nations against etc.

Wicklow (and Amelia and Louis, probably) just a) does not need special protection from one traitorous “Roman” dog. And b) is furious when he realizes what Rhoades did, (and also sort of proud, because wow. It did take care of the problem and also his husband is a powerful man).

And just. I need all the wounded but desperate Wicklow going eerily calm when something practical needs to be done. But making himself be sneaky, to think like Rhoades to accomplish this with only the three of them. (Maybe four, like, Mariama, right?) And that thing is to find the enemy’s camp, retake his husband, and then raze the camp to the ground. And then you get berserker mode Wicklow rescuing his soft, clever husband, and the two of them getting like, legendary status. Like love poems and everything.

So Rhoades (and Pilar and Anthony, obviously…although Anthony should really be a “Roman” as well) would ride out to save Wicklow.

(This is so cheesy and I don’t care.) and they wind up in the hands of the other enemy. The original one. The one Wicklow and Rhoades got married to symbolically unite their nations against etc.

*takes deep breath*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Of course their team is still around. Of course it is! Around and being sneaky and badass.

Maybe Anthony was a soldier who was part of the retinue to bring Wicklow and his friends back to Rhoades to be married? Or maybe we don’t care that much about logic because hey, arranged marriage AU.

God Rhoades face when Wicklow comes charging in, that alone must have launched a thousand songs. So much intensity in one moment, and they’re both trying for decorum because there are bodies everywhere and friends and allies and enemies alike watching…. I doubt they totally manage, because how could they. And it just fuels the legend.

If one was going to do this properly one would have to start with the epic saga of warriors in love. And then go back and explain how it came about. And end with another version at the end.

I’m weak for this shit, for real.

(via vashti-lives)

If you think being around Rhoades hasn’t taught Wicklow the importance of making a good public impression… But, like, fusing them with the ways of his people.

AHHH WAIT Like, it’s too much but like, also perfect for the ‘time’ and ‘place’. Wicklow saving Rhoades, taking the camp, the regular loyal “roman” soldiers appearing too late, Wicklow standing before Rhoades in the center of the camps, fires lighting the dark sky. Bloodied, injured, but on his feet, and then pulling the knife he gave to Rhoades (and found, with blood on it, in the body of one of those who took Rhoades) and returning it to him before Louis or Amelia draws forward the last traitor.

(And how fucked up is it that they would hold eye contact during a summary execution? Aaaah too much Roman history for me, I can tell!) And then later, weirdly, Wicklow should be angry, but he is almost apologetic, cleaned and bandaged and with his husband, accepting each kiss.

Any universe in which Rhoades confuses Wicklow and then gives him all that *pleeeeasurrre*. Aahhh.

Getting little warrior Wicklow in his bed at last and then just bringing him to the edge for a while, and then stopping to kiss him, and then starting all over again, and at this point, it’s less about conquering Wicklow as it is proving to him that Rhoades is his equal in all ways that matter, that Rhoades is his husband, and he wants Wicklow to understand what that means.

…also I just like, dazed, flushed, desperate Wicklow, staring at Rhoades with those bright, pleading eyes, straining up a little for another kiss and frowning until he gets one.

Alpha Arthur and Omega Bertie, as taken from a chat with @vashti-lives

I am now imagining Bertie like, Of course I’m an omega, darling. I imagine the dragon scent has thrown your senses for a loop.
And Arthur like, but you’re so….
Bertie just, Tut. Don’t be such a traditionalist. An omega protectiveness over their family is just as fierce as an alpha’s, if not moreso.
And Arthur like, I meant… you’re so… um… *blush* dominant. Bertie practically purring at the compliment.
Arthur walks in and smells DIVINE and he’s so… resisting his alpha urge to just take over that house.
And Bertie’s every instinct (as dragon and as an omega and just as a very smart person) is that Arthur is *perfect*

Hilariously, of course, Arthur does start to take over the house almost immediately. All the while trying *not to* because he thinks his new boss is an alpha and will be angry. (The dragon scent is totally throwing off his sense.)
and mmm Just imagine his confusion when Bertie tells him the truth. And he realizes he has been not just taking over that house, but making a den for the omega he wants. He is about to apologize in a fit of red-faced embarrassment, but then Bertie looks right at him and touches his arm (touches him!) and praises it and tells him how suitable he’s made it, and what a clever alpha he is. He knows–he KNOWS–what that would do to any alpha and he is doing it to Arthur, drawing him closer, reeling him in with those eyes and those words and the scent Arthur recognizes now. “Look how clean you’ve made our home. Look how well-defended it is. How safe and protected I am, my pearl of an alpha.”

Okay so, like, I got an anon, who donated, and made a sort of vague request. (No offense, anon, it’s just that vague prompts are kind of like too specific prompts, in that my mind just sort of… stops.) Anyway, the current political climate, and my mood, would make Tank/Simon too painful to write. And even Zeki/Theo would be a little sad (I mean, they don’t live in our universe, but still, neither of them would be happy.)

So, at someone’s suggestion (ahem) I tried to write a Zeki/Theo vaguely historical but not really arranged marriage AU. Only, well, I can’t even do that right. Anyway. Here you go.

Zeki’s father was insistent that Zeki did not have to consent to the marriage. The alliance with the small northern kingdom would hopefully foster trust between Zeki’s people and the people of the north who had offered them refuge. It was important, Dov had said, but the war leader who would not call himself a king had made it clear this city-state would take anyone who asked for aid, as long as aid was given in return. This marriage was a suggestion only.

Or so they claimed. Stories about the war-leader, Neri, made him out as a murdering beast or a fair and wise ruler depending on who did the telling. But in their weeks camped near the walls of the city, negotiating for farmland and access to the rivers and streams, Zeki hadn’t seen any evidence of Neri’s cruelty. What he had seen were many bands of refugees, like his people, fleeing the tyranny of the southern wolf people. What he had also seen, was that the northerners here were like their southern kin in many ways, with odd behaviors he could not explain.

Like why they would choose him as their spouse, or mate, for one of their own. Zeki’s people had been conquered too long ago for any royalty to remain, and Zeki himself was hardly of pure blood. The signs of his mother’s heritage were in his darker skin and wild hair, and the methods of their magic that he mingled with his.

He was not a powerful wizard either. Perhaps he might have been, if the southern wolves hadn’t driven his people north, leaving him no time for apprenticeship and learning. He was also not a warrior, or handsome. At least, not to his eyes. The rough journey had taken most of the softness from his body, but he verged on too thin, now, and his hair was nothing but untameable dark curls.

But it was Zeki who the offer had been made to. Zeki, who had been approached by a tall, brown skinned northern wolf woman in warrior’s clothing, and her more quiet companion, and told that he and his father were invited to eat with their family that night.

Zeki had been distracted by the woman’s knowing grin, and the utter beauty of the shy man. He hadn’t realized until they were gone that he’d been invited to dine in the great hall where these people had their feasts, or that the woman, and the wolf with her, would be at a table of honor, as if they were nobility.

They had brought his father there to discuss the idea. No one had thought to ask Zeki. They had seated him next to the shy northerner, the one who dressed as a hunter, not a warrior, but who stole honeycakes and left them on Zeki’s plate whenever Zeki was distracted. He was about Zeki’s age, perhaps older, and so handsome Zeki had tripped over his own tongue more than once. The hunter had smiled back, speaking rarely, but in a soft voice when he did, so soft Zeki had to lean in to hear him—at least until the two younger wolves across the table had snickered. Then Zeki had straightened up and done his best not to make a fool of himself in front of anymore pretty northern wolf men.

For all the good it would do him, if he was to be married to one of them anyway.

He had not said yes. He held onto that thought tightly as he waited in Neri’s house, while his father and others talked in low voices in another room. He did not have to say yes. Even if the marriage was likely a noble one, and better than he ever would have done even if he had worked hard to become a powerful wizard. Even if it would help his people. Even if he did not think the marriage would be cruel.

But he had cleaned his finest—least patched—robes before putting them on to come here, and he had tried to brush his hair after a long bath in a cold stream, to be presentable to the northerner who had apparently wanted him enough to ask, or, more likely, had not objected when his parents had suggested the match.

So strange for the northerners to offer Zeki to another man, but they were like the southern wolves, who had odd practices. His own people didn’t condemn it, but he didn’t see how a union with no children would cement any alliance.

“Are you going to say yes?” a soft voice broke through his troubled, tangled thoughts, making Zeki raise his head.

The hunter stood before him, wearing only loose pants despite the weather. His hair was down to his shoulders.

Zeki’s mouth ran dry as his skin flushed with heat, and the hunter took a sharp breath.

Zeki tore his gaze away. Then he quickly looked back. “Should I? Will I—is it a joke?”

“A joke?” The hunter put his head back, and seemed suddenly so much taller than Zeki would ever be. “You believe it’s a—” he frowned as if trying to translate “—a jest, or a lie? You don’t know it’s real?”

“Oh.” Zeki was less reassured by that than he should have been. “So it is real. But then, why me? That’s what I don’t understand. Why me? You’re big and fiercely beautiful—I mean, your people are.” The hunter ducked his head, as shy as Zeki had first thought he was. “Apologies. I speak without thinking sometimes.”

“You are quite pleasing to my eyes as well,” the hunter told him, while facing the wall.

Zeki put a hand over his heart, as if that would stop its hammering. He didn’t know if this was dangerous, but it felt that way, like standing in a storm while lightning crashed around him. The voices from the other room seemed far away, but he recalled the stories of the great hearing of the wolf people, and tried to keep his voice low.

“When I sat next to you, I almost could not be still with how much I wanted to touch you.” Zeki slapped a hand over his mouth, but it didn’t stop the flood of words. “I’ve never wanted to touch anyone else as much as you. I know I shouldn’t say that. I’m sorry. But if I… if I do this, then I shouldn’t ever say it again. And I wanted… I never thought I would find love as my parents had. In the normal course of things, I would have been a scholar, then a wizard, and probably not very wealthy, even with my magic. I probably wouldn’t have married. So I didn’t think… I didn’t think. And now I won’t be able to say these things to you anymore, but I should, don’t you think? A person should get to say what’s in his heart at least once in his lifetime.”

Zeki closed his eyes tight.

“You speak more words than I am used to hearing.” The whisper was close, as if the hunter had moved without making a sound. “Does it pain you say all of that?”

The hunter seemed sad, so Zeki opened his eyes, and looked up into the man’s handsome face, with his gentle gaze and soft mouth and high cheekbones. Zeki could feel the heat from his body, the way he had at the feast. He was even closer now than he had been then. And Zeki could not touch him.

“It is not a pain,” Zeki lied, and a small frown crossed the hunter’s face. “But being near you makes me wish—” too many things to name.

The hunter inhaled deeply, and then his eyes went half-lidded, and he swayed toward Zeki before he caught himself. “I wish for things too,” he confessed, with a quick, darting look toward the room where Zeki’s father was discussing his fate.

Zeki would have to decide. He wet his lips. “Could I… could I kiss you? Now? While I still can?” He’d never kissed anyone before, but he should get to choose who would receive his first.

“You’re asking?” The disbelief in the hunter’s voice would have stung, but then he leaned down, and Zeki’s hands were at his sides of their own volition. His skin was smooth and hot to the touch. His hair brushed Zeki’s cheek, ticklishly soft, and if he paused to put his nose and mouth first to Zeki’s neck before kissing Zeki’s lips, Zeki did not mind.

He shivered for it, and made a small noise that brought the hunter closer. Zeki could wrap his arms around him, and did, and tipped his head back without complaint when the kiss ended, or moved, down the side of his neck, becoming wetter and louder as Zeki panted.

“Will you say yes?” the hunter asked, with a scrape of teeth across Zeki’s skin that had Zeki grabbing fistfuls of his hair to ensure he would do that again. Then the words sank through the warm, delirious fog in Zeki’s mind, and he stopped.

The moment he did, the hunter pulled away with a low, mournful sound.

Zeki was colder without him, and wrapped his arms around his own chest instead. “How can I say yes now? I can’t be husband to a stranger when all I want is you!” He went on, miserably, turning away. “I have met men I wanted to kiss and lie with before, but never this much. That’s probably foolish, to you, isn’t it?”

“Husband?” the hunter finally asked, in a strange tone. “Did they not use the proper word? Do you not know what you’re feeling? Zeki—” Hearing his name for the first time made Zeki face him. “Zeki, you are my mate. If you want to be. If you will have me. We can be married in your people’s way if you wish. But I thought you understood. I thought you were allowing me to woo you.” The hunter took a breath. “You asked to kiss me. Perhaps your kind have rules against that?”

Zeki belatedly turned toward the room where the others were—or so he had thought—discussing his fate. But they were silent now.

“No,” he said faintly, at last. “No rules against that.” Then he blinked. “I don’t know your name.”

The hunter stared at him, possibly offended, or merely confused or worried. Then he shook his head. “I have several. The one that people like you, from foreign places, use, is Theo.” Theo hesitated for another moment, then sniffed the air before continuing. “I can… I can explain mate to you, if you would like that.”

Zeki licked the taste of Theo’s kiss from his lips, while his mind ran in circles. Then he gave one quick, jerky nod. “Yes,” he added, in case Theo hadn’t understood, but Theo was already smiling.

rosiea-w replied to your quote:rosiea-w replied to your post:Did I ever tell you…

Oh good grief, honestly you should just write the whole book repeatedly for this and all kinds of other scenarios. Don’t get me wrong your other works are equally good I just love Will and Charlie so much. They are just so perfect for each other

Well Charlie is everyone with a broken heart and Will is everyone who wants to believe in love and I JUST NEED THEM TOGETHER FOREVER AND HAPPY AAAAHHHH.

SADLY TELLING WILL THAT WILL WOULD MAKE SOMEONE A GOOD BOYFRIEND, AND HURT AT HOW PLEASED AND HOPEFUL WILL LOOKS AT THAT, BUT ONLY ENCOURAGING HIM. YEAH, YEAH HOW COULD YOU DO ANYTHING BUT MAKE SOMEONE HAPPY, WILL?

HE SAYS THESE THINGS LIKE THEY’RE NOTHING. (AND CHARLIE ONLY EVER LIES TO SPARE HIS SISTERS’ FEELINGS AND WILL KNOWS IT) AND GOD, WILL CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE AND PUSHES FORWARD TO BURY HIS FACE IN CHARLIE’S SHOULDER. LIKE YOU, CHARLIE? COULD I MAKE YOU HAPPY?

HOW CAN CHARLIE BE SO CONFUSED? HOW CAN HE ANSWER, WILL, YOU ALREADY MAKE ME HAPPY, IN THAT PUZZLED TONE? AS IF HE DOESN’T KNOW. SO WILL RAISES HIS HEAD AND KISSES HIM.

The silk of the necktie felt–as humans said–absolutely sinful as it slipped through Cal’s fingers. He pushed a loop through and then yanked on one end with a satisfied grin, not bothering to look as he pulled the knot tight, then tighter, then tighter still.

He didn’t have to look–Detective Inspector Brannigan’s gaze was locked onto his hands. Anyway, there were more interesting things than knots in neckties to consider, such as the fact that the tie in question had only moments before been beneath the Inspectors’s starched white collar and knotted neatly and properly at the base of his throat.

His throat was exposed now, a rare enough sight for Cal, without the added pleasure of holding silk warmed by the Inspector’s incredible body heat in his hands.

If Cal had been a werewolf, he would have been able to smell the traces of the Inspector’s skin as well.

But Cal was not a werewolf, so when he finally dragged his gaze from bared skin, it was to be faced with the sparkling, crackling colors of desire, and the fierce, bold blue of the Inspector’s admiration–no, not admiration. Love.

The Inspector–Ray, his Raymond–offered up his precious, pricey necktie to Cal without hesitation when Cal asked, and let Cal perch on the corner of his desk in order to be closer to him when no one else was permitted such an impertinence, and listened as Cal explained how that poor, mistreated human girl could not have tied the proper knots required to lower herself to safety, even though no one else ever listened to fairies. Cal’s Raymond loved him and was in love with him and desired him and admired him, and for several seconds, Cal could not move, could not breathe as he looked at him.

And then Ray’s slightly rough voice broke him from his reverie. “Where did you learn so much about knots, Mr. Parker?”

“Oh.” Cal slipped the knot loose and held the strip of silk out for Ray to take. Ray’s fingers carefully did not touch his. Cal glanced away. “There was this Portuguese sailor I once knew–”

“That’s enough, Mr. Parker.” Ray’s growl shivered down Cal’s spine, and then Ray was gentle, soft as he looped his tie round his neck once again and stared down. The silk was creased. But the red in his shine was about jealousy and longing, not a rumpled tie.

Cal moved forward helplessly, taking the ends of the tie in his hands and drawing the Inspector near.

Ray let him, allowed Cal to give him an elegant knot as the base of his throat, his head tipped back and his eyes nearly closed.

He was werewolf, and that mattered. Eyes closed, head back, throat bare–it mattered. But his hands stayed at his desk, and Cal very carefully did not let his fingertips graze his skin no matter how much he wanted to. He curled the tie around his wrist instead, and Raymond did not object.

“There you are, Ray,” he said, instead of anything he could have said, like, love me, or take me, or you have me, Ray, just please tell me why I can only go this far and no farther.

But perhaps it was in his voice all the same, or his scent, because Ray did not move, except to tremble as Cal tugged ever so faintly on his silken leash.

Someone asked for them to “literally bump into each other.”

I have no idea when this was from. 2015 maybe?

“Oh my god.” Jeremy was literally on the ground on his ass. He had fallen onto his ass through sheer force of his own distracted clumsiness and the impact of the solid wall he must have run into. “Oh my god oh my god. Shit.” And that was his coffee on the ground and on his pants and on his books. His expensive-ass fucking textbooks, now covered in the expensive-ass fucking latte he treated himself to after a long, busy day.

A hyphen with ass at the end was his favorite sort of compound. Actually anything with ass at the end was his favorite kind of anything.

He jerked up to his knees and leaned over, using his T-shirt to mop up some of the damage. Of course, he was still wearing his T-shirt and that meant a cold, gross drive home in the evening fog, but whatever. These books cost $300.

“No, no, ducklings. You need to be dry so I can read you.” Jeremy clucked his tongue and then realized in horror that this was the sound his mother had made when he’d been little and she’d wiped rainwater out of his face with her hand. He froze for a moment, and sat back, then realized this was not the time to be reconsidering his life because latte. Seeping into his pants. He was going to smell like souring milk for the rest of the day. That was not good. He’d made a special appointment at the university’s library to go into the basement to look through the old letters and journals from the area the librarians hadn’t officially archived yet. This was not a good impression to make, even by Jeremy’s standard of semi-disastrous first impressions.

“It’s great. No, really. They will absolutely believe that I take excellent care of books and can be trusted with valuable things when they see this,” Jeremy told the books, as well the collection of motion somewhere to the side of him. He was vaguely aware the motion was person-shaped and larger than him, and in some sort of violet-gray color combination his mind was trying to process while also helping him pat his books dry. “The turning into my mother thing, well that is unexpected. Not entirely, they say everyone turns into their parents. That’s anecdotal, but even anecdotal evidence is some sort of evidence. Besides, in a certain respect, we are our parents. Genetically. We’ve got the same sort of muscles in our face, hands, the same body types, with the tendency to move the same way. Add that to environment and it’s only natural we would pick up our parents’ mannerisms.”

He became aware that his words were, in fact, not aimed at his books at all, but rather at the wall he’d bumped into—run nearly full speed into, to be honest—and which had knocked him back on his ass. Which, ow, his ass kind of hurt now that he thought about it. Pavement was hard.

The wall was not a wall, obviously, but rather a person, a tall, sturdy-ish white person with facial hair and a sweater that looked like a cloud. A light purple and gray cloud with large gray buttons up the front, buttoned crookedly. Which Jeremy noticed, because the man, it was a man in that sweater, a handsome man maybe a handful of years older than Jeremy, had knelt down to look, or help. He curled one–large, dry, capable–hand around Jeremy’s wrist and tugged his hand away from the book, then pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his black jeans.

A handkerchief. Jeremy sat back onto his thighs to watch the guy expertly push the excess liquid from the book and then blot the rest with his handkerchief. He did the same to the second book before bending down to blow on the damp, malformed pages.

“They won’t be the same, but they should still be legible once they dry, and resellable, if you needed.”

“Three hundred bucks and I might get twenty for them if I’m lucky,” Jeremy responded, slowly, blinking hard as if he had rain in his eyes although the late afternoon sun was out and glorious. It struck his book-rescuer from the side, making him look not unlike the subject of a Caravaggio painting in a pastel cardigan.

“This was my fault, I’m sorry,” his rescuer continued as he picked up Jeremy now-empty paper cup and then the lid and set them upright on the ground. He glanced up and then seemed to freeze when he saw Jeremy staring at him.

“I bumped into you,” Jeremy clarified, looking over that solid, solid body that he’d run into. “Honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t see you.” He licked his lips, but the man looked down at himself, to his sweater maybe, then frowned.

“Anyway,” he said, which was a dismissal, definitely, and Jeremy huffed a little to hear it. “No one inside is going to care that you spilled on your textbooks. Put them in your bag and you’ll be fine.”

“Says you.” Jeremy smoothed a hand over his wet jeans and grimaced. “Do you even know what I’m going to be doing in there? The scraps of old, delicate paper I specially asked to touch?” The guy’s eyes widened behind his hipster glasses. His eyes were kind of a green, made lighter by the black frames of the glasses. This guy had an interesting sense of color. Jeremy was wearing a cheap T-shirt in a strange shade of dull blue but he looked good in it. “These are like, artifacts I’m going to be touching, just for a chance to look at the casual language in old letters between friends, hopefully chance upon some locality-specific expressions. Now I’m a mess because I didn’t see the hot man right in front of me. And do you know who is supposed to be in there to oversee me today? Do you even know?” Jeremy ran his hands through his hair and stuck out his lower lip. “I need more coffee for this. Maybe I can get black and dump in sugar and an ice cube and sneak it….”

He trailed off because that was a serious expression of disapproval on the man’s face.

“You’re right. I can’t be trusted today.” Jeremy sighed again and poked at his books. They wouldn’t dry right inside his book bag, but it would have to do. “Uh, your handkerchief?” he remembered. “You carry one of those? That’s cool. I’d say it’s a hipster affectation, but you actually used it. And oh, it was in your back pocket. Was it hanky code? Now there’s a fascinating language. The language of fashion should be studied as much as oral and written language I think. I don’t know what it means, if it was hanky code. It looks like a plain white hanky, and glasses aside, you don’t look like a hipster. I am willing to believe you genuinely keep and use a handkerchief, and I ruined it.”

Coffee had already turned it brown. Jeremy reached for it. “I can clean it, get it back to you. This is my fault after al….” He trailed off for the second time when he looked up and met the man’s stunned stare. His mouth was open, the lips just parted as if Jeremy had taken his breath away—or freaked him out with all his talking, or angered him with the hanky code thing.

“It was my fault,” the man said again, in a hushed voice like this was a secret. “I stopped to look at the display out front.”

Jeremy angled his head to one side. “You mean the tulips, or the plaque about the sugar barons who donated the money for the building?” He’d read that plaque many times too, usually because of the outraged history major graffiti under the plaque about the crimes of those sugar barons.

The man closed his mouth while continuing to study Jeremy with his mint, maybe sea foam, green eyes. “Both,” he said at last.

Jeremy grinned. “It’s got a different angry fact underneath it every time I come to this building.”

The man might have smiled. His lips ticked up for a moment. “You come here a lot?”

The local history annex building, while still large, was attached to the back end of the huge, huge university library, and didn’t get as much foot traffic.

Jeremy shrugged. “Thesis. And the building is quieter. But today is special.” He leaned in, because why not after they had already made a mess together. “Today I am going to meet the Beast.”

“The Beast?” the guy asked, speaking in the same whisper as Jeremy.

“They called him in specifically to keep an eye on me, and anything I might find,” Jeremy confessed. “I volunteered, um, aggressively, to go through some of the old letters and journals yet to be archived. They asked the infamous librarian from Barrett Library—you’ve never heard of him? Weird. He terrifies the students. Anyway. Either they don’t trust me or they have some legal issues, I’m not sure which one. It might be a toss up. But I can be trusted, I swear. This was an accident.”

The man blinked at him, once, then twice, then glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t want him to think badly of me,” Jeremy finished. “Which is why the milk on my pants is going to suck.”

The guy’s face, which, for a somewhat awkward nerd, was really, really good looking, did a strange thing, as if he didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m sure you can explain,” he said at last. “He can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, he can.” Jeremy nodded, then wrinkled his nose. “But I get it. Those are valuable books in there, and in the Barrett Library. I was just really looking forward to this and I don’t want to get kicked out.”

“Really looking forward to it?” he was asked in a warm, startled tone, but then the guy abruptly scooted back. He picked up Jeremy’s books and handed them over before standing up. He held out one hand—god, he had nice hands, well-constructed and neat—to help Jeremy to his feet.

Maybe it was the old-fashioned sweater or the hanky influencing him, but Jeremy nearly swooned at the gesture. He didn’t want to let go, but made himself, because he was weird and hyper, but not a creep.

The guy offered him a quick smile as he bent back to down to grab the empty cup and toss it in the nearest trash can. “Just wash your hands and you should be fine.”

Jeremy snorted. “Yeah. Uh. I talk a lot. Like a lot. I don’t mind, normally, but I know what kind of first impression I make. But thank you. You’re very nice for a brick wall.”

That got him another long stare, even softly parted lips for a moment, before the man tossed his head and pulled in a breath. “Come on,” he said at last, and threw the ruined handkerchief away.

Jeremy made a small noise for the expense, then, for one of the few times in his life, had the sensation that someone was faster than he was. “Come on?” he repeated, not following at all. He was still holding his wet textbooks.

The man glanced at them, then took them from him and began to walk. “We can dry them better inside, and you don’t want to be late.” Jeremy trailed after him, goggling. It probably wasn’t a good look for him but he couldn’t seem to stop. The man paused again at the doors, where he gestured to a sign. “Drinks are not allowed inside anyway.”

“Right,” Jeremy agreed faintly, only just stopping before he ran into the guy’s back again. “Sorry.” He would do it again, though.

That got him a look over one broad shoulder, as if the man guessed that. “Just be careful.”

“Yes. Of course,” Jeremy repeated blankly, brightly, all kinds of enchanted all of the sudden. “Who are you?”

The made the man turn all the way around. He ducked his head. “Benjamin Barrett. From the Barrett Library,” he added quietly, pointedly, then opened the doors while Jeremy stood there, staring. It was difficult to follow with his foot in his mouth, after all.

Remember (vaguely) that AU where Godric was Bertie’s bodyguard? Ah, and Bertie so fabulous and arty and refined, in his elegant house during the rain. Of course he wants to mope, because by this point he’s completely head over heels for Godric, and Godric is ever the stoic bodyguard and barely even looks at him except for personal safety reasons? Maybe, maybe there had been a point where Bertie had thought differently, maybe he’d thought they’d grown closer. Perhaps there was a moment of stillness where they almost kissed, and then something Bad happened, and Bertie was hurt, and Godric was all business again.

And Bertie… Bertie didn’t react well. He fell (slightly) into old bad habits, and went to a party and didn’t behave, and got drunk, and started to introduce Godric as his love. This is my love, Godric, aka my bodyguard. This is Godric, I adore him and he hates me. And he didn’t mean to, really, But he was in pain, and it only made things worse because Bertie is famous, and now everyone calls Godric his love instead of his bodyguard.

And Godric never denies it. Just stays silent and watchful, near him at all times, retreating with what feels like cruelty whenever someone flirts with Bertie.

But in this moment, no one else is there. They are alone in his restored townhouse on a gray, rainy evening, and Bertie has been ignoring his phone to stay curled up on the couch in front of the fire. Godric is there, in the doorway at first, and then outside the room, and then in again.

Bertie doesn’t mind. Godric is frowning, but that’s better than blank quiet. The rain is steady, and the fire crackles, and when his phone rings again and still goes unanswered, Godric is the one who slips out to get more firewood. He places it on the fire, then steps back.

He’s out of sight, but hardly out of mind. He speaks softly, but then, he almost always does. “Are you all right?” after a while of warmth and peace and Godric.

Bertie doesn’t look for him. He will be just out of Bertie’s sight, somewhere he can watch Bertie without Bertie ever getting to watch him. That doesn’t feel right. Not tonight. Not in this weather.

He normally prefers the spring, but there is something about a windswept fall day to make him shiver and stick to his blankets.

“Godric,” he allows himself to say it because he can’t see Godric’s face. “Godric, my love, won’t you at least sit on the couch with me?”

“If you’re lonely, you could–”

“Godric,” Bertie sighs. “am I never allowed to see you again?”

He sees Godric every day, but that’s not what he means.

“There’s nothing much to see,” Godric answers at last, but steps from the shadows by the door. He glows in the light of the fire, of course he does.

Bertie takes in the sight of him, and smiles, and leans over to pat the other end of the couch. “You’ll be far from me and my wicked gay hands. Safe and sound, and still able to spring into action to save me, if necessary.” Although, Bertie remembered the aftermath of the last incident, after what might have almost been a kiss, and Godric injured and bleeding–for him. “I hope it won’t be necessary.”

“So do I.” It’s a trick of the firelight that makes Godric’s gaze so warm. The intensity however, is naturally Godric’s.

Bertie sighs again. “Please, sit. I promise I won’t cross any boundaries. I merely want a little company.”

“You never lack for company.” Godric’s voice is briefly not-soft. But when Bertie turns his eyes up to meet his, he comes forward, and sits with a frown. “It’s no wonder you’re cold.”

The short press of his big, callused hand on Bertie’s bare foot is startling, but then he tugs Bertie’s blanket over it. “How can someone with as many clothes as you not own socks?”

“I own socks!”Bertie pouts despite himself. “I just… forgot them. I was in a mood. A dramatic, rainy day mood.”

“Your mood seems to have lightened.” Godric comments, too light to be serious.

Bertie takes him seriously anyway. “I wonder why that could be.”

He will not look away first. He has said it many times. Godric is the one who will not acknowledge it, to either accept or refuse.

“Godric, my love,” Bertie can’t not say anything at the pure shock on Godric’s face. “How can you surprised? You? With your eyes that see everything? I have told you. I’ve waited. I told you, over and over, like an idiot, and still you wouldn’t leave, or give me an answer, and now I am a joke who has to force you to sit with me in front of a firepl–”

He stops at the rapid way Godric blinks, the stunned tension in his broad shoulder. His eyes are as intent on Bertie as ever, despite his softly parted lips, but then he glances down. Bertie follows the movement and realizes.that the pleasing, warm weight on his chilled toes is Godric’s hand.

He recalls all at once the light pressure of Godric’s hand at his back to help him in and out of cars, the strength in his arms as he’d carried Bertie to bed after that one disastrous drunken party, the coffee ready to go in the mornings, the suggestions that Bertie stop working and eat, the soft question, just now. The worry.

He can’t stop staring at the hand resting on his foot. Still, it’s a surprise to see his hand come down on top of Godric’s.

How silly of him. Of course Godric would not answer with words.

The laugh is a surprise too. Godric almost yanks his hand away, but Bertie has him and he’s not letting go now.

“How dumb I am.” Bertie laughs a little more. “No wonder you thought I was toying with you. You did, didn’t you?” It feels right to stroke the side of Godric’s hand with his thumb. And because he is Bertie, weird and queer and famous, it feels just as right to twist a little so he can scoot his feet beneath Godric’s thigh.

The sigh that slips out of Godric stops his laughter.

Their hands are still together, something so innocent that Bertie’s friends might laugh to see it.

He thinks perhaps he needs new friends, because this is perfect.

“Godric loves me,” he says, carefully, to try it out, and closes his eyes to listen to the drum of the rain and the spitting fire and the even rhythm of Godric’s breath.

(via sweetfirebird)

Like, Arthur getting the job and going home, and flushed and out of it, restless in his skin. And he can’t eat, and he can’t sleep, and he can barely wait to go to bed before he’s touching himself, and that is not a good way to start his new job. He knows that. But the smell of smoke and male and Dr. Jones seems to linger in his clothing and it’s driving him crazy.

And he’d stumble into work the next day, exhausted and yet still twitchy and restless, to find Dr. Jones gone, but he left a list of things to do. And Arthur does them… and then does more… because the house needs to be put in order. It’s not *right* as it is. Something in his den is *wrong* and it’s only halfway through the day that he notices exactly what he is thinking, and on the heels of that he realizes that he keeps going past the couch and the study–the two places downstairs that smell the strongest of Dr. Jones.

His throat locks against a howl. Because this can’t be. It shouldn’t be. Dr. Jones is a dragon! A rich, famous, brilliant dragon! Dragons don’t have mates, do they? And if they did, it wouldn’t be a failed grad student and scrawny little werewolf! Oh god. Oh god. He has to be mistaken, this can’t be what it is! It’s just a crush, or something, or the distracting itch of the house’s magic confusing him.

But then the front door opens, and Dr. Jones comes sweeping in impatiently, obviously searching for Arthur, and when he sees him and his face lights up, a shivery, intense heat pools in Arthur’s stomach, and spreads beneath his skin.

He doesn’t know what his face looks like, if his eyes have gone fierce, but Dr. Jones pauses for a moment before continuing forward, and he clucks his tongue like a mother hen. “Darling, don’t be nervous. I know I’m a dragon, but there’s no need to look like that. I’d never hurt you, at any rate. I thought I made that clear yesterday when I hired you. I like you very much, Arthur.”

Arthur is panicking and Dr. Jones just goes on, “Have you been working all day? Marvelous. You truly were a find. Look how clean it is in here already.”
While Arthur is simultaneously dying and preening at the praise from his mate. “You seemed a touch worried yesterday when you fled–I mean, left before I could offer to feed you. Weres do like food, don’t they? As gifts, I mean. I’ve been hoping I’d get to cook for you, show you part of what I’m capable of giving you, but I thought it best that you have some time to think. Perhaps a task to settle your instin–your nerves. I see you’ve done very well on your own, but I missed you and couldn’t stay away any longer. You didn’t misplace anything, did you?” Dr. Jones is prattling. Probably to help Arthur calm down, and it’s working, although not for the reason he probably thinks. His mate’s smoky voice is light today, soothing, and he’s close enough now for his hazy, herbal scent to fill Arthur’s lungs.

The sight of him, elegant and careless and graceful, with those strong shoulders Arthur had seen bare only yesterday, and the column of his throat exposed as he slowly pulls his cashmere scarf away.

“You’re starting to look peckish, pet. Are you hungry, Arthur? I was thinking of making some dinner–you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No plans for this evening? Perhaps with a boyfriend?”

Arthur twitches at the obvious, so obvious, leading question and shakes his head violently. Because no, no boyfriend. Not one anyway, and definitely not one now.

It is not his imagination that Bertie looks extremely satisfied with that answer. The room, where it doesn’t smell like Arthur’s spiking adrenaline and arousal, is filled with different emotions now; wafts of curiosity and interest, something salty and heavy on his tongue that’s close to lust, and something else, something sharp lurking at the edge of his awareness.

It makes him curl his hands into his palms to stop himself from shifting. It’s not panic this time, but it’s just as embarrassing.

Dr. Jones stops dead, less then five feet from him, and his black eyes gleam in the light. “So you’re staying, then?” he asks, his voice all smoke now, the air still and hot.

Arthur shivers and doesn’t answer–not out loud anyway. He can’t help what his body does.

The sharp scent, hunger, isn’t coming entirely from Dr. Jones. Arthur growls, just once, a short, high sound of warning. He has no idea what to do, but he wants.

And Dr. Jones smiles at his growl, and the floor shakes, and for the barest second, he gives the impression of being much taller, much bigger, than he is.

Arthur wants that too. It’s his, if his instincts are right.

Dr. Jones, when he speaks again, is closer than he was a moment ago. Arthur has to tilt his head back, bare his throat to look at him. “Arthur.” Dr. Jones’s voice is a rumble to crack the foundations of the house.

Dr. Jones bared his throat too, Arthur notices at last, he knows wolves. Arthur remembers the title of one of Dr.Jones’s books–the one on werewolves–and shudders at how obvious he must have been that the dragon knew before he did.

But Dr Jones is closer again, and growing so satisfied that Arthur can hear himself panting as he tries to breathe it all in. Mate-scent, home and lust and need. It can’t be real but Arthur wants, and presses his claws into his palms to keep from grabbing him, from throwing himself at Dr. Jones and whining until Dr. Jones’ teeth are at his throat.

Dr. Jones, so powerful that his scent makes Arthur dizzy, lifts his chin, and it takes everything Arthur has to raise his eyes from the sight of his neck.

But he wants.

Dr. Jones is bright and brilliant and dragon, and dragons don’t let go. If he is Arthur’s mate, then he will never let go. Arthur will never be forgotten. He’ll have a place, and it will be here, with him. And Arthur will be his wolf, his wolf, and he’ll guard him better than any magic.

The whine escapes, high and needy.

“None of that, Arthur, please.” His mate is gentle as he steps forward. He’s hot to the touch, and dangerous, but he curls around Arthur and rumbles when Arthur puts his nose to his skin. He scratches softly at Arthur’s hair. This is Arthur’s mate, and he feels so comfortable Arthur can close his eyes. He can breathe in the scent of him and rest at last.

“Please.” Arthur found human speech again, although he doesn’t know why he chose that word, or why tears are making his eyes sting.

“Of course, darling.” Dr. Jones sounds surprised. “No one in their right mind would reject a treasure such as you. Say it, and I’m yours.”

He’s smiling when Arthur finally lifts his head to look at him.

“Mate,” Arthur dares, holding his breath.

“Treasure,” Dr. Jones answers immediately, without looking away from him. “Arthur.”

sweetfirebird:

@ehonauta so I have been obsessed with modern Amelia/Pilar all day. Because you need them both to be adults, right? But Amelia is very much sexually and romantically innocent. And then I thought, well, college AU. Because obv. But then I worried that was a Check Please influence. Which is random, but I hate my job and my mind wanders sometimes.
Anyway. So. like. Amelia is totally friends with Wicklow and they are nerd hackery types in the AV Club or something. And she wears heavy t-shirts and layers of flannel and short hair and backwards baseball caps unless she is working out or playing softball or something, because she is at school on a sports scholarship, and working out is something that calms her–as long as no one else is around. She came from somehow… maybe not small town… but small enough, with a family that never understood her at all, and she’s been hoping college would be different. She’s a sophomore now, and it’s about the same, although she’s made friends.
She sees things. She wants to experiment and try things, but she’s so self conscious about everything, how she looks and dresses, the fact that shes never even been kissed, that she gets defensive and pissy. Which at least Wicklow never seems to mind.
Only then there is Pilar.
Pilar. Who haaas to be a senior now (although she was a junior the year before, obviously) and she’s curvy and gorgeous and beautiful, and has long black hair that curls against her shoulder when she wears it in a casual ponytail while she does laundry. She plays sports too, women’s lacrosse maybe? And she is known for being brutal when she needs to be. She’s older, and even in a sweatshirt she looks amazing, and when she dresses up Amelia feels like the lowest piece of scum ever to walk the earth.
Somehow, for reasons Amelia doesn’t fully know, Pilar is friends with Wicklow. Not just friends, like best friends. So she is around ALL THE TIME when Amelia is with him, and Amelia hates and loves it, but mostly hates, because she can never think of what to say or where to look, or if she’s staring too much. Her heart beats like crazy, and she gets it. She does. She got it in high school even if she could never say it out loud, but being around Pilar makes her *understand* better than anything else.
Which makes her even more nervous. She’s all nerves and worry and hoping she isn’t too obvious. Some days she thinks she is, she has to be, and those days are terrible, because she wants to hide away in shame. Other days she realizes Pilar would never notice someone like her–virginal, ridiculous, confused about everything–and feels both sad and grateful.
oooh I know you hate Anthony, but really, if this were a novel, I would have jock!Anthony coming into the gym late at night during her alone time workouts, and her being pissed, and them going from ignoring each other, to snarking, to weird friends. Jock!Anthony giving her bro advice!
Anyway. And then. And then I think there should be a drunken party. Hmmmm

Anthony, because of course Anthony meets Wicklow and they hate each other and yet get along like a house on fire because Anthony acts all dumb joke, but he is secret genius, and devious, and has trust issues, so he’s right up Wicklow’s alley. (OH. You know, Wicklow hasn’t met Rhoades yet or least doesn’t really know him, and just has drunken angry hookups whenever he feels the need for sex, but…. anyway. Idea to explore later.) Anthony invites them to some party, and it’s a giant party involving like, several frat houses, and they go because they are nerds, but free booze, right? Even though the frat guys make Amelia a little nervous and make her feel extra out of place. But these aren’t the rowdier houses and the party spills over into smaller drunken gatherings at the house nearby. And Amelia has like… well a lot of beer. And some shots. And I guess her ability to do shots lands her the drunken friendship of some frat guys, And they take her hat, but they give her like, a plastic lei, with a shot glass attached to it. And also a classy pin that says “I like to eat out”, which makes Wicklow make a face and Anthony laugh hysterically.

Then they should drink some more and walk to the next house, while debating going home. Wicklow keeps mentioning some donor to the department or rich guy on some committee who keeps visiting him, and Anthony is STILL drinking somehow, right in the street, until he texts someone and disappears for some drunken booty call. Amelia wishes it was that easy.

They go to the next part, and the house is nicer, and Pilar is there, holding a drink, but not visibly drunk, and Amelia wants her so much. The alcohol can hold her nerves at bay. And she completely forgets that she is wearing that pin, or the lei around her neck, because she is drinking and warm, and Pilar is looking at her and listening to her.

What is she saying? She has no idea what she is saying, but Pilar is smiling this faint, fond little smile, and she’s so beautiful. Amelia is probably staring. Is she staring? And Pilar says something again, something that sounds low, and quiet, and just for them. But the party is loud, so Amelia just smiles back at her, and then Pilar’s hand is on her lei, and Pilar is twisting it so that Amelia has no choice but to come in closer, and tilt her head down, and then Pilar is kissing her.

AU of Play It Again Charlie, in which Charlie is an actual prince.

AU where Charlie is an actual prince, and Will is some low level noble he keeps running into the gardens when he is trying to find a moment to himself, and Will doesn’t know who he is, and says all these outrageous things to make him laugh. And then Will gets an invite to something through a friend, and he sees Charlie and he’s heartbroken because Prince Charlie is never going to be interested in him, not seriously. And he knows he should say something, but the next time he meets him in the garden, he can’t because Charlie doesn’t frown around him, he’s happy around Will, and Will can’t deny him that. So he gets contrary and flighty and Charlie gets frustrated, and they argue for the first time, and Will snaps at him to go back to court and find someone royal to marry instead of torturing him like this, and Charlie realizes Will knows. But before he can think of what to say, Will leaves.

And weeks go by, and he’s not there, and the Prince never smiles anymore.Not real ones. Everyone notices and gossips about it. The Queen Regent (Nana, obviously) insists that he continue to do his duty, while she and Charlie’s sisters search the crowds for the source of Charlie’s unhappiness. And it’s Princess Ann, of course it’s Ann, who finds Will in Charlie’s old favorite spot in the garden, being a mopey Will, and Ann who finds out who Will is and basically forces him to attend some function.

But it’s Charlie who sees Will from across the room and walks up to him and kisses him aaaand anyway. I’ve been writing all day and I’m being an idiot.

Charlie locks eyes with Will and he’s had all these things to say to Will that he never got to say. He loved Will before he ever thought Will knew who he was. That Will telling him to do his duty and go find some proper and stop torturing him has haunted him for weeks. He’d never hurt Will ever. He thinks Will would be amazing with the people of his kingdom in a way Charlie can’t be. Will’s so open and warm (and pretty) everyone will love him. True, Charlie hadn’t thought anything was possible between them, he hadn’t let himself hope, but once he knew Will’s feelings, he wanted to move heaven and earth to make it happen. And he would have. But Will was gone, and must have lied about his last name, because Charlie couldn’t find him.

And then there he is, in the same room with him, and it’s like no one else is there. They move out of Charlie’s way, they always do, but now it’s with an eye toward the nervous honey-haired figure at the entrance, who starts to speak when Charlie gets closer.

“Charlie, don’t be angry. They made me–Oh God, oh fuck, I mean, Your Highness. Because you’re the prince, of course you are. I knew it and I never meant to be stupid or lie to you, I was just fooling myself. Seeing you everyday was–”

And then Charlie puts hands gently to Will’s jaw and tips his head up and kisses him softly on the mouth. And Will gasps a little and grabs his wrists, but just to hold on, So Charlie slides one hand into Will’s hair and kisses him deeper, and Will has no idea what’s happening, but he’s not about to protest.

Will’s eyes slide shut, and his soft little exhale becomes a moan when Charlie pulls him closer. A small moan, but it still makes his eyes fly open, and his cheeks go red as he pulls away. He’s no innocent flower, but he’s never been kissed by the Prince in front of the entire court before either.

Charlie is frowning now. Staring down at him sadly and sternly now that Will is out of his arms, and Will can’t take it, blush or no blush. “Don’t be like that,” he whispers, with a glance around. “If you want me, of course I’ll say yes.”

But Charlie frowns deeper. “Because I’m the prince? I’d never demand that, Will.”

“Of course you wouldn’t!” Will gasps, audience momentarily forgotten. “Not my Charlie–ah. You can forget I said that, if you want. Just. Yes. I’ll be yours, for however long you want me. Please.” His voice gets a little husky just thinking about being with Charlie. His family is nobility, but barely. There’s no shame in being the king’s bedwarmer for him. It might even raise their status. It’s more than he ever hoped for, to be honest.

“For however long?” Charlie has a rough voice Will has never heard before, but it makes him shiver.

“Yes, Charlie,” Will agrees, impatient for more kissing and eventual fucking in the prince’s own bed.

Charlie straightens up, every inch a prince. There’s no sign of his war injury as he takes Will’s hands and leads him across the room, through a parted sea of shocked, startled courtiers, to the dais where the Queen Regent herself sits.

Will hears himself make an embarrassingly squawky sound, before he remembers himself enough to bow, and when he looks up, an old woman is studying him intently.

“This is Will,” Charlie–Prince Charles, first of the House of Howard, introduces him in a voice that nearly gets Will hard, it’s so determined and final. “This is my Will,” he adds a moment later, softer. “If he’ll have me.”

As if a pledge like that in front of the queen isn’t as good as a marriage promise.

Will feel a little faint. But Charlie’s grip is firm and the Queen Regent is amused now, so Will looks up at the fool who has been driving him mad for months, handsome and honorable and worried Will is going to say no.

“You could have had me without all the fuss.”

Charlie doesn’t seem pleased with that, but he does incline his head. “If you truly wanted that, Will, you would have kissed me in the garden.”

He has a point. So Will sucks in a breath and stares at the Regent again. Her eyes are twinkly, just like Charlie’s when he’s about to laugh at something Will’s said. Charlie should laugh more, smile more, and kiss more because fuck, Will was still weak in the knees. But Will had to be sure.

“But you’re the prince. You could–”

“Will,” Charlie cuts him off in that voice, and this time Will flushes all over. He can’t look away.

“You;’re really mad at me for running away, aren’t you?” Will wonders, without really expecting an answer, and then bobs his head once in agreement before he change his mind. “Yes. I’ll marry you, you idiot.”

“Idiot?” One of the Royal Princesses echoes, her tone shocked, as the court gasps, but Will is being drawn forward for another kiss, so he doesn’t much care.

starrla89:

sweetfirebird:
quick bit of more Wolf! Wicklow and Rhoades from a PM with selenographics.
Wolf!Rhoades with Wicklow in a brothel. And he has never gotten to claim his mate. Not really. Not in a way that means anything to anyone but him. Wicklow finally getting it, maybe. Up against that wall, his throat bared, Rhoades splattered with the blood of the man who touched him, eyes glowing. “He scared you, and I couldn’t let him.” As if it’s everything. He knows Wicklow is dangerous. Rhoades knows him. Rhoades knows everything he is capable of, and his fear, and yet Rhoades “couldn’t” allow Wicklow to be even momentarily afraid. He could not. Rhoades, with all his control.
Control slipping in front of him.
And Wicklow hates that, hates seeing Rhoades so worried. Doesn’t like him covered in blood, even if he’s pleased that Rhoades was victorious and ridiculous. Tilting his head farther to the side when that lets Rhoades calm a fraction, and then Rhoades moving closer, sniffing the air around him, and whatever he scents makes him growl. And something in Wicklow makes him growl back, but it’s soft and questioning, worried, and he writhes internally at how weak that makes him, but then he breathes in and it’s pure Rhoades-scent, leather and lust and skin and now blood. Wicklow growls louder and then reaches out to grab Rhoades by his bloodied cravat. But it’s only to smell more of him. Maybe his scent was muted in his library, hidden by books and fire and liquor. Maybe Rhoades hasn’t been this close to him before–hasn’t let himself be–but he needs more and Rhoades lets him.
He’s breathing heavily, his heart is thundering, but he lets Wicklow slip closer and bring his mouth near his skin, and he says that word again, the one to drive Wicklow mad. “Mate.”
FUCKING HELL.

He wants to finally demand what Rhoades means when he says that, but it’s difficult to form words with Rhoades so close and smelling so good. Wicklow wants to tip his face to Rhoades’ throat, so he does, tugging the cravat loose to give himself access. He realizes what he’s done after, but feels a bare second of alarm before he’s distracted again by the heat of Rhoades’ body. He’s leaning closer, baring his neck for Wicklow as if that isn’t dangerous. Even Wicklow, with what little he knows of wolves, is aware of how easy it is to tear a man’s throat out.

But Rhoades swallows and allows Wicklow’s nose to graze his skin, lets his lips part above the throb of his pulse point. And when Wicklow takes a deep breath and releases it in a pained, pleased whine, Rhoades shudders and says the word again.

“Mate?” Wicklow repeats in a confused, muffled growl, as he finds that the skin behind Rhoades’ ear is soft. He thinks he’s shivering, and has been since Rhoades surrounded him and put his back to the wall, or maybe it was when Rhoades slid one hand, carefully, to the wall behind him. Wicklow’s chest is still bare. Rhoades could have touched him.

He frowns a bit as he tracks the scent of Rhoades, growing frustrated when clothing blocks his path. He grunts at Rhoades’ shirt collar and hen pulls on that too. Rhoades makes a high sound, frustrated, but uses words too. “Private, you will be the death of me.”

Private. Wicklow frowns harder for that, and struggles to think when Rhoades’ bare flesh is in sight. His clothing is stained with blood but his skin is clean and smooth, as it should be. No man has let marks there. No man should. Rhoades should never feel pain.

But he whines again when Wicklow’s mouth touches the skin–Wicklow hadn’t meant to, but the scent is a taste now so he does it again.

“Mate?” Wicklow asks again, covered in Rhoades-scent and Rhoades-heat, the sound of his strained breathing and the rush of his blood. His own heart is loud in his ears. He could run, but the rightness of it has him dizzy. Rhoades had not hurt him, not ever. Rhoades will not even touch him, not even with his wolf in his eyes and Wicklow half-dressed in front of him. He is strong and he is safe. He smells of blood and books and soap and when he says that word, Wicklow wants to do this with him, to close his eyes and tilt his head to let Rhoades see his throat.

He pulls back at the thought, despite the rough exhalation from Rhoades and the howling inside him. He pulls back and he thinks, like a man, until he can make the words.

“Am I to call you that too?” he wonders, and looks up.

Rhoades’ eyes are shining in dim light. They are hungry though he is still.

This time Rhoades has no words but Wicklow can read them anyway.

Please.

Q: Prompt: I will vanquish your foes and then help you file your taxes.

Asked by: vashti-lives

I can absolutely Winter Prince for this one.

(Reposted from my tumblr)

“You realize the press is imagining you engaged to some princess or other right now?” Razin’s tone was close to frosty, although he kept his gaze on his tablet. He swiped the glass a few times in short, furious gestures that still managed to be graceful.

Kisin did not think Razin was actually reading anything at the moment, although Razin was clever enough to hold a conversation and look over spreadsheets at the same time.

( more spiky Razin behind the cut )

No, making fun of Kisin’s embarrassing popularity with the paparazzi and his complete failure of a romantic life, while also pretending he didn’t care about it was one of his best friend’s favorite pastimes. He also liked Games of Thrones–the books–and comic books. He had quite the collection now. Kisin’s family paid him well to manage their fortune.

He should have been happy, not scowling at his tablet and sitting in icy silence while Kisin stared at him. Kisin had been going to ask if Razin wanted to go to lunch. Kisin avoided the city as much as he could, mostly because of the presence of the press, but also in a somewhat stupid attempt to give Razin space.

To give himself space as well. It was an awkward and painful thing, to be in love with your best friend. It was worse when they didn’t love you, and you showed up to their apartment unannounced and found they had a guest.

A very naked guest, who felt comfortable enough to answer the door.

So these days, Kisin stayed either in the family’s cabin in Vermont or at the place in Connecticut, where he could at least see to the horses. And when he got bored, or lonely, or simply couldn’t stand only talking with Razin through email, he came down.

Obviously he shouldn’t have.

“Yes, I know,” he admitted on a sigh. “I went to Paris last month for some event with Ceren, and Princess Lana and I happened to get along. She likes the same books I do, and she loves horses.” He stopped briefly to frown when Razin muttered something and reached over to grab his coffee and down it in one swallow. “She’s nice, Razin. You’d like her. ”

Razin was not in a good mood. His fingers were drumming against the tablet now. “I thought His Highness didn’t like media attention.” His Highness was Razin’s teasing pet name for Kisin since they were boys, and Razin had come to the country estate when his mother had been hired as a cook. Kisin was His Highness to him. And then at some point when Kisin had been in college, the nickname had been overheard by a reporter and the public had gone crazy with it. Pictures of Kisin riding his favorite horse, chopping wood at the cabin while sporting a beard, in a tux while attending a charity gala with his mother, had appeared in tabloids overnight, all with HIS HIGHNESS splashed across them.

Once he’d been in the Sexiest Man Alive issue, Razin had been merciless.

“Who is His Highness dating this week?” was almost inevitably Razin’s first question at seeing him. Or, “Whose heart will His Highness be breaking today?”

“Razin. You know I don’t like the attention. I never asked for it. I only came to the city because I hadn’t seen you in two months.” Kisin didn’t try to have a witty comeback. He wasn’t as clever as Razin. But usually his quiet remarks would shut Razin up, make him take a breath and then turn agreeable again.

Sure enough, Razin gave a sigh and finally looked up from whatever he had been pretending to do. He stared at Kisin for a long moment, sweeping his gaze from his shoulders to his feet and then up to Kisin’s face. He swallowed and then glanced away.

“I don’t know if I can been seen out in public with you,” he declared, loftily, if breathlessly. “People like the idea of you in love with an actual princess. If they see you with me, they might get the wrong idea. What does your princess think of your beard?” Razin’s breathlessness became more pronounced. “I didn’t realize you’d been up at the cabin, doing your manly man lumberjack routine.”

“My princess,” Kisin began, with as much sarcasm as he could muster, “was trying to make time with my sister for most of fashion week before she abandoned the chase to bed some models. And I came straight down. Should I have shaved first?” He scratched at his jaw.

Razin shook his head no, quite firmly, then seemed to stop himself. He heaved a breath, then muttered to himself as he put his tablet away and straightened his desk. “His Highness thinks I will drop everything to have lunch with him, simply because he tells me he came down just to see me.”

The muttering didn’t fool Kisin this time. He rolled his eyes. “If you can stand to be seen with me, Razin. The paparazzi always seem to find me. They know damn well Lana and I aren’t dating, but it makes a good story I guess.”

“Of course it does,” Razin spoke softly, while turning away to put on his scarf. “The prince and the princess in Paris. It will hardly compare to the prince and his accountant at lunch.”

“I could take you somewhere romantic?” Kisin offered, meaning to tease, and then heard himself, and what an idiot he was. “The nicest falafel truck in Wall Street,” he added quickly, hoping Razin wouldn’t notice.

Razin had fancier taste than any falafel truck anyway.

But Razin froze.

Kisin’s heart kicked with terror, terror that did not lesson when Razin turned to him with a strange, sad smile on his face.

“I might have a solution to His Highness’ current romantic predicament.” Razin studied Kisin again, from his sweater and thick coat to his dark beard. He gave one final sigh, and then straightened his shoulders as he approached Kisin.

He linked their hands together, entwining his fingers gracefully with Kisin’s, and then made a small sound before he continued walking, dragging Kisin along with him, out of his office, past curious secretaries and startled interns.

“Razin.” At the express elevator, Kisin balked, no matter how smart and cunning Razin could be. “Razin, they’ll think you’re the other woman. They’ll demonize you. They’ll–” He stopped dead. “They’ll think you’re in love with me.”

“That’s the plan, Your Highness.” Razin’s tone was too nervous to be mocking, although he might have intended it to be. “And you would be in love with me, unless you think they won’t buy it, since you can barely bring yourself to visit me anymore. Too busy chopping wood and breaking hearts.”

“I’m not–” Kisin realized he was being goaded into a fight, which was one of Razin’s other favorite pastimes when he was upset. He shook his head. “The press will hate you. I won’t allow it. I can take them thinking I’m engaged again, or that I dumped her and broke her heart, or whatever it will be next week, but I can’t take them attacking you.”

“You–” Razin raised his head to stare at Kisin with wide eyes. A frown came and went in his expression. Then the elevator door’s dinged as they opened, and he stepped inside. He was still leading Kisin and Kisin was still letting himself be led.

“And His Highness says he doesn’t break hearts,” Razin complained lightly once the doors were closed and they were alone again. He kept his gaze down, on the floor, Kisin thought, until he realized they were still holding hands. “Maybe if you finally settled down, and really dated someone, the press would get bored and leave you alone.”

He was quiet.

So was Kisin, although he couldn’t have said why. “Who do you suggest?”

Razin lifted his chin, but kept his eyes away. “Someone you actually care for and want to spend time with, obviously.”

Kisin swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat, then quickly directed his attention to the elevators doors as well, and not their joined hands. The moment the doors opened to the lobby, people would see them together. They would assume. There would be rumors and then pictures.

“I’m not going to pretend to date you, Razin,” Kisin insisted, with his palms damp and his heart rate skyrocketing. “But I will go to lunch with you. I came here to have lunch with you.”

Razin whipped his head around to stare at him, although Kisin kept his attention on the doors.

“Yes, you did,” Razin agreed, after far too long a pause, while his mind had reasoned and considered everything there was to reason and consider about Kisin. “You–”

“You never did say where you wanted to go for lunch,” Kisin interrupted, and released Razin’s hand as the doors opened to reveal the marble walls of the lobby.

C&P from my tumblr. Brief AU of Wicklow's Odyssey. Wicklow/Rhoades as werewolves.

( Read more... )

Rhoades has called him ‘mate’ from the moment they met. “Mate” with shocked awe when his eyes found Wicklow in the dark of his prison cage, in the dark like humans weren’t supposed to do. Wicklow’s mother had lived just long enough to hint to him that there were others like them, and to remind him to hide it, but he’d never met another until then.

“Mate.” In a smooth, rich man’s voice and then again, but lower, in something like a cat’s purr, although Wicklow did not think a wolf made such a sound.

He didn’t trust rich men and he didn’t know wolves, wild or wealthy or purring, so he put his back to wall and lowered his head and snarled.

The other wolf only came closer, glowing eyes steady, not a hint of fangs to be seen. “Mate,” he’d said, a third time, and added another word, one to set Wicklow to growling and make him forget his mother’s every word about caution.

“Mine.”

He doesn’t say that word again, but the other remains, as foreign as any of the Greek words he insists upon using, and the two dollar words from his books as well. Wicklow doesn’t pay it much mind. There are other wolves that run behind Alexander Rhoades, wolves as confused as Wicklow. Wicklow has to dodge them, sniff them out, keep them away. He has devices to learn, and other ways of killing besides going for the throat.

He is curious, although he keeps his questions to himself. The woman carries a rifle but shifts into a nimble brown creature. She shows her fangs when Rhoades approaches, when he looks at Wicklow and uses that word, but she frowns and follows him all the same.

The younger wolf is rangy and big and loud until he isn’t. He moves quieter than anything Wicklow’s ever seen. He smells of secrets and gunpowder and walks apart from the others when they train, but he stills when Rhoades speaks.

The grey wolf, the one-armed, three-legged Colonel feeds them, nips to keep them in line. His eyes glow so much Wicklow thinks it’s only the fact that he, too, is a rich man that has kept the world from guessing what he is.

Rhoades is a wolf who never changes, never in front of them. He does not snarl. He has soft hands and wears silk. But he speaks and even Pilar cocks her head to listen.

He stares at Wicklow, and pauses, as if waiting, and calls him Private Doyle when he is a man, and mate when the small black wolf shows up at his door.

Rhoades wears fine leather shoes. Wicklow thinks they would be equally fine to sleep on.

Rhoades does not touch him, although after a few months he touches the others. On their shoulders, once, at the back of Anthony’s neck, when he’d returned wounded and whimpering. He buys Pilar clothes. Serves hunks of meat to Anthony. Leaves cigars out for the Colonel.

For Wicklow there are plates of food Wicklow will not touch, coats he shies away from, and books.

The books Wicklow borrows, although only within the library. He will not take them from Rhoades’ home.

Rhoades makes no comment on this, although he is more man than wolf, Wicklow thinks, and is overly fond of words. He says nothing, but when he looks at Wicklow, Wicklow wants to tilt his head back and howl.

He does that, howls, for the first time on the date he chooses to be his nineteenth birthday, all alone in the acres of woods outside Rhoades’ family home in Philadelphia. He howls and jumps in surprise at the chorus of responses, and the sudden slurry of motion as Anthony and Pilar rush past him into the trees. They yip for him to follow, so he does, and they return in the morning, muddied, cold, wet, to a hot breakfast and a gaze from Rhoades so fondly amused that Wicklow can hardly meet it.

He doesn’t ask why Rhoades didn’t join them.

“Mate,” Rhoades tells him, before he leaves for another mission. They are all leaving, for weeks this time, but it is Wicklow alone in Rhoades’ library. “Be careful.”

Wicklow is always careful, but Rhoades stares him down and smells of cologne and leather and worry over the skin-scent, warm-scent, home-scent of him, so Wicklow nods. Rhoades smells good, very good, clean and whole. Rhoades smells like the others, but also himself. If he dares to come closer, Wicklow can find the salt of his sweat, the metallic hint of his blood, and the powerful center of him beneath even that. He thinks it’s like honey, or velvet, or gold, although gold itself does not smell like Rhoades at all.

If the others are pack-scent, “Pack,” Pilar tells him, “You are my pack brother. Little Brother Wolf. Little Fierce Eyes.’ then Rhoades’ scent is something else. Leader-scent. “Boss,” Anthony says. “Don Alessandro” “Alexander,” the Colonel grumbles, but with his head angled down. “Fool,” Pilar will add, but then shake her head and admit the rest in a softer voice, “The wolf among the wolves.”

Rhoades’ scent is strong. It creeps through the streets of Washington and finds Wicklow in his lab, and when he is alone in his room. It lingers in Wicklow’s clothes and makes him bite at his pillows when he cannot sleep. Wicklow flushes when he enters the library–the place where the scent is everywhere, and gets on his lips so that when he licks them he seem to taste Rhoades.

He doesn’t understand why the others don’t react to it. Even Anthony will preen for a bit of praise from Rhoades, even the Colonel will flash his eyes when Rhoades speaks, but Wicklow’s heart pounds before he even sees Rhoades, and he knows Rhoades can hear it.

But he does nothing, only continues to offer meals and clothing and a world of knowledge. He comes downstairs to see Wicklow while reeking of men and seed, and the humans he has just fucked slink out the door with bruises on their skin. He says those things, “Mate. Be careful” before sending Wicklow out to spy and lie and kill.

Wicklow wants to bite him.

Rhoades is rich and soft, but Wicklow thinks if he tried to sink his teeth in Rhoades’ throat, he would be the one to end up hurt.

In Chattanooga, they find a Reb wolf, or she finds them. Wicklow finally guts her, but it takes him too long to heal. Her fangs sank in deep, and when he returns, more worn than he’s ever been, Rhoades snarls before Wicklow can manage one word of his report, and in the next moment has Wicklow against the wall and his face to his shoulder.

The wound isn’t serious. Wicklow tells him that, shuddering when he ought to push Rhoades way. He ignores how slow he was to heal, how Pilar had been desperate enough to use their radios to try to reach Rhoades, as if the sound of Rhoades’ voice alone would have been enough to make Wicklow to heal faster.

There is a scar in the shape of her teeth. Wicklow has many scars. This one turns Rhoades’ eyes to gold, and Wicklow is too momentarily taken aback to see a glimpse of this wolf again to notice the hot breath on his neck, the teeth so near his throat.

“Mate,” Rhoades says quietly, distressed or angry, Wicklow can’t tell. The scent of him is everywhere. Wicklow licks his lips and inhales and wonders where the others went, and if they know why he cannot move until Rhoades’ stops shaking.

He stays in the library, that night, and most nights after when he isn’t working.

He eats the food, and accepts one coat.

He takes the books to his single room, and burns when the scent of Rhoades fills the small space.

“Private Doyle,” Rhoades says, over the radio, before fading into crackling silence. It’s the last Wicklow hears from him for three weeks. It’s been a month altogether he’s been away from pack leader, from Rhoades, from good-scent, home-scent, library and hot blood and Rhoades. Wicklow hasn’t been sleeping. It took all his energy to get to Rhoades’ door without shifting.

Rhoades stands in front of him with glowing eyes and smells of another man, and Wicklow is dripping with rainwater and shakes his head like a dog in the street.

Wicklow is on two legs, but he feels animal, uncertain. He doesn’t know why Rhoades would call him by his human name when Wicklow can only swallow his whimpers of confusion.

Rhoades smells of another man, human, weak, not-Wicklow, and he knows Wicklow knows this. Wicklow thinks he wants him to know, and for a moment he bares his teeth.

The surprise and hope that weave their way into Rhoades’ scent throw him enough that he backs down, lowers his head, but his glare remains, even as his heart is racing.

Rhoades should rip his throat out, hurt him, as the Colonel has suggested some older packs used to do to upstarts who challenged the pack leaders. But he thinks of Rhoades’ mouth at his throat and trembles. It is not with fear.

Rhoades will know that too. As the others must know. If it bothers him, there is no sign. His voice gentles as he asks for Wicklow’s report, and he puts one hand, one careful hand, to Wicklow’s shoulder as he urges him to sit down and rest, rest at last, mate, put these lonely weeks behind you and rest here, where you belong, and I will keep you safe.

The words are strange, moreso because Wicklow is not sure they are said out loud. He reads them in the tilt of Rhoades’ head, the warm curl of his scent, the shine in his eyes.

If Wicklow turned, even a fraction, that hand would curve over the back of his neck. Strange then, that he finds he can rest despite that.

He thinks it might even be because of it.

If this doesn't make sense, it's because I wrote it will sick and very tired and avoiding real work, and because Coffeebuddha basically mind-zapped me with the idea of Will and Charlie/fake boyfriends/cheesy Christmas fluff.

So here. An Alternate Universe Will and Charlie, in which maybe Charlie was having a better pain day when he first encountered Will and wasn't as grumpy, and was accidentally charming, and Will is a smitten kitten, so when Charlie asks if he's willing to go to a Christmas party with him to get his sisters off his back, Will jumps at the chance.

Or, the simpler title: Forget the Mistletoe

( stupid smitten kitten )

Current Music: All I Want-Kodaline

Look! I remembered to post a reminder!

I still haven't heard back from the auction people (??) but I'm going to assume it's all going as planned.

October 11, there will be a silent auction with all sorts of things from various authors, with all benefits going to the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance.

Here is a link to the auction's Facebook page. Authors, Bloggers, and Readers Raise Awareness

I am will be offering to either a) write a series of letters or emails (at least two) between any two of my characters (your choice) OR you can get another short story set in the alternate universe version of Play It Again, Charlie in which Charlie is the reluctant host of an online cooking show and Will is a fan. (You can find that here). (and um, okay so a friend and I have a whole thing about the first time Charlie mentions Will on the show... and also a show Will hosts with Jeanine, in which he imbibes a bit and maaaybe says things he shouldn't, and then worries about what Charlie will think when he sees it. Ahem.)

Hopefully it all goes well and everything gets bid on and donations are huge.

In the meantime, here is the last prompt fill I promised to post. The *other* Will/Charlie AU, in which the prompt was "meet at a masquerade ball"

( tale as old as time )

Well, maybe.

There is going to be a silent auction for the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance on October 11. The event (which once again will be happening on October 11 from 11am to 11pm CDT) will feature many donations from m/m authors for everyone to bid on.

Totally for a good cause, and you get stuff out of it too. Yay!

I, maybe, perhaps, will be auctioning off something as well. Though it's kind of a weird thing (because hey, I would just sign a book and donate that to auction, but who would bid on that and also international shipping is ouch to my budget). I just signed up so I don't know if my auction offer will be okay.

But if you're interested, I offered to either a) write a series of letters or emails (at least two) between any two of my characters (your choice) OR you can get another short story set in the alternate universe version of Play It Again, Charlie in which Charlie is the reluctant host of an online cooking show and Will is a fan.

Ah, but Rispa, you say, frowning in confusion, what universe is this? We've never seen this universe.

To which, I say, right. Well, here it is. Part of a Tumblr prompt I did a while ago in an attempt to wake up my brain. So read, enjoy, and hopefully, maybe, give a little to a good cause to get more of it.

.....

( Less with Bread )

And I will let you know if my auction offer is accepted. :)

Audiobook has arrived! The one for A Boy and His Dragon has, I mean. A Boy and His Dragon at Audible (Confession: I get the giggly squeals when I try to listen to my own words being read out loud. I am blushing right now.)

In other news, it occurs to me that those not into the geeky online things might not realize what AUs are. I write a lot of AUs of my own characters, usually in unedited little snippets to amuse the people who follow me on Tumblr. For example, I posted a short Bakery AU of Ray and Cal from Some Kind of Magic for Kristi P for Valentine's Day. An AU is a story set in an alternate universe from the one in which the original story is set. I tend to still consider AUs Original, in a sense, (because change one fact about a character and you change the character) but it's not really a point I'd argue because mostly AUs are supposed to be fun. :) Though to make it even more confusing, sometimes I just label them "crackfic"... which they basically are. A cracky, nutty version of a story you already know.

I mention this now because every once in a while I will read a comment from someone very confused or someone will remind me that not everyone is a giant geek like me and so people don't always speak my language. If anyone ever doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about, feel free to ask me ~~so I convert you to a giant geek too.~~

Anyway! AUs. I love my characters and I love variations of them because it's interesting to see how a slightly different background can entirely change the way a story would go. I tend to write fuzzy little AUs just to make me smile but if you want to know more about them, may I suggest Wikipedia? (Obvious caveat that Wikipedia is Wikipedia and always open for debate and editing.)

(Oh my though, modern AU of My Man Godric in which Godric is the head of security for a rich, old, noble family and Bertie is the public scapegrace, always in the tabloids, usually caught staring adoringly at Godric. It's really quite embarrassing. And I still think about that AU of Play It Again, Charlie in which Will gets to know Charlie while he's still recovering in the hospital. I think about that one when I need some angst.)

I forgot my point. I guess, just... look at these idiots.

Ray the baking werewolf and Cal the besotted customer

This was originally an unedited Tumblr post. Original notes have been left in.

(I bet he makes savory pies and quiches filled with ham and croissants rich with butter. I bet someone else normally makes all the sweet, delicate things, like someone else normally works the counter. But one day Penn, who runs the register and does their books, has to go do some family thing with her mother and since it's a slow day she tells Ray he has to come out to help customers if anyone rings the bell.)

He was right in the middle of preparing the beef for some spicy mini beef pies, done Louisiana style, when someone rang the bell and it didn't put him in the best mood. He only had so much time to get some prepared for their lunch rush. He'd ask Murphy to go deal with the customer but Murphy had a special order of lemon tarts to complete. Someone had ordered them at the last minute. Ray was not fond of people who made huge, demanding orders at the last minute. Penn tried to remind him that business was business, but some customers needed a basic understanding that their bakery was not a McDonald's. Things took time, even with the occasional magical assistance.

In his nose was an irritating mix of lemon and onion which did not improve his mood as he pushed through the bat-wing swinging doors that led to the main room. He knew there was a frown on his face but he couldn't be bothered to care.

What did make him pause was the reaction from the fairy waiting by the counter.

"Oh, a face like that should not be scowling so," the fairy remarked, tilting his head back to study Ray with wide, swirling eyes of brown and purple and green. The colors made Ray think of Mardi Gras, and King's Cake, and frosting.

Ray didn't usually care for frosting but for a moment he licked his lips at the imagined taste of sugar. Then the fairy spoke again. "Then again the frown suits you. You're a were, aren't you? Maybe fierce is exactly how you should look." The fairy was not subtle in looking Ray over, but then they never were.

"Can I help you?" It came out a lot crankier than it should have. Penn would have had something to say about that if she'd heard it. Ray shrugged it off and didn't apologize or explain his frown. The fairy would forget about it in a few minutes anyway once he got some sugar.

He was actually pretty low-key for a fairy, with much smaller wings than usual, as if he was part human. He even had a shirt on, unbuttoned to reveal a bare chest glowing with health and sparkles, but still a shirt.

Ray headed over to the pastry counter after a moment's hesitation. The fairy wasn't going to want anything savory and he probably wouldn't want a whole cake, but a box filled with individual pastries was always a fairy favorite.

"So you're finally out here." The fairy's gaze darted to Ray's apron, coated in flour as well as hints of blood from the meat. "Oh, Ray," he realized out loud and then stopped. He twirled his wrist and looked slightly guilty as he explained. "Penn talks about you."

"She does?" It was not what Ray meant to say at all but he fought off a blush and stared back at his winged admirer as impassively as he could. The fairy--half-fairy, smiled at him. It was possibly the kindest smile Ray had ever seen.

"Penn is wonderful," the fairy offered with that same beaming smile. Ray thought Penn was wonderful too. She had never once scoffed at a werewolf living in a city and working as a baker. He loved Penn. He had no idea why he'd frown harder to hear that the fairy liked her too.

"She thinks the world of you, you know." The fairy leaned forward, putting his slender hands gracefully along the top of the glass case, sending glitter raining down the lace doily underneath the display of cupcakes that Penn kept out to tempt the lunch crowd. Ray realized his hands were also on the glass counter but couldn't remember having moved forward. Yet there he was, the glitter almost close enough to touch him.

He could hear Murphy swearing at his crust in the kitchen but the sound seemed far away, drowned out by his own heart in his eyes and the rapid, hummingbird beat of the fairy's heart right in front of him. He inhaled, noting a new scent, like fresh caramel and cinnamon, overlaid with a desire that somehow surprised him despite the fact that this was a fairy, and fairies were, well, given to showing desire openly and often.

"You talk about me?" Ray could not believe himself. He didn't know what had come over him. If anything he was known for not talking. Now he was asking stupid questions in a hoarse voice and he felt hot, hotter than usual, hotter than the kitchen at its busiest.

The fairy danced from foot to foot as he nodded. "I asked her and she was only too happy to talk about you."

Ray blinked. His head was swimming. His vision seemed to sharpen on the increasingly bright cloud of glitter around the fairy. He thought the fairy's mouth was the most beautiful mouth he'd ever seen. He considered whether, being half-human, the fairy might like one of his pies, or at least a croissant. Ray would fill it with dark chocolate and dip it in cream if the fairy would prefer it that way. Ray would feed it to him himself, anything to keep him smiling and happy.

He shook his head but the scent only got stronger, like crisp meringue and caramelized pears.
"You see," the fairy began again, leaning in and staring at Ray as though Ray was one of the bon bons on the shelves below, "I catch a glimpse of you from time to time, and you and your frowns are the shiniest thing I have ever seen. But you never come out. Not once. Not ever. And then Penn said--"
"Yes?" Ray was growling and too distracted to be embarrassed about it.

"Penn said she'd make you come out. As a favor to me. And to you. She said, 'The wolf needs to indulge his sweet tooth' and grinned and told me to come in today."

"And you remembered?" Ray couldn't keep the surprise out of his tone.

The fairy's smile was only a little saddened by his rudeness. "When it comes to what matters, Ray, fairies remember everything."

"And I matter?" Ray took another long breath. Hope was sweet and light like powdered sugar. He didn't know what that meant.

The fairy danced in front of him again, though wriggled might have been a better word. "You matter so much I put on clothes," he offered, wrinkling his nose in a way that made Ray feel even warmer.

"I wouldn't have asked you to do that," he murmured, only to hitch his shoulders at the fairy's delighted laugh.

"I knew I would like you, Ray." It wasn't something Ray should argue with. Weres also tended to like or dislike others immediately, although based more on scent than any "shininess".

"You don't know me," he argued anyway, inhaling so much want/want/want that he pulled at his apron. He wanted to lean closer so he did, forgetting lemon and onion in order to breathe in blackberry jam and spiced peaches and rosewater. There was a sweat too, human scent, man scent, and the combination made him flush. The fairy smelled like the best things in the world.

"That's easy enough to fix, isn't it?" The fairy stuck out his hand. "I'm Cal.

His hand was warm. His glitter was like being sprinkled with chocolate dust. And he smiled when Ray brought his wrist up to his mouth.

...

Still fierce Ray, but not nearly so, er, ~~dickish about fairies~~ uptight because he isn't a cop and doesn't have all those pressures on him. I imagine they were almost kissing by the end of that encounter and on a date/screwing shortly afterward. Maybe they make it through one date first. Then everyone at the bakery has to deal with Ray, ridiculously in love and Mated. Aw.

To sum up, I am weird. I write weird little things. People can always write me and ask me what the hell I'm doing if it's too weird. :) Also, SHINY NEW AUDIOBOOK!

(Also, apologies if this really is obvious to you. I just noticed several comments from confused people recently and didn't want them to continue being confused.) :):):)

So... I was writing Christmas snippets for people on Tumblr while also editing Little Wolf and someone asked for a fairy tale and what was meant to be a short thing turned into a slightly longer story.

Ah. Me and my weird brain.

Anyway, so, Little Wolf is an unfinished novel about a very confused little werewolf finding his mate and for whatever reason, he reminds me and Selenographics of a cracky fairy tale about a princess locked in a tower. Which is probably how this happened.

Little Prince
(The Little Wolf Fairy Tale AU)

Summary: Prince Timothy is betrothed to Prince Nathaniel, who is handsome and kind and perfect. It's awful.

( Read more... )

Current Mood: exhausted

I promised better links once I had covers. To what? Some might ask. Well to a pair of steampunk stories I wrote a while ago that didn't know what to do with, so I put them up on Smashwords.

And I Am Happy

My steampunk Alternate Universe story for Will and Charlie from Play It Again, Charlie

Description: Will is a terrible valet. Until he came to the house of war hero and respected MP Charles Howard, he was more of a rich man's convenience than a valet. No one predicts he will keep the position for long but Charles Howard is not at all what Will expects. A reserved, insecure man who hides his pain from the public, Charlie--as Will secretly thinks of him--believes that no one, especially his pretty valet, would want him. Will longs to convince him otherwise but even if Charlie were the type to dally with a servant, Will is a valet, a man, with a scandalous past, and Charlie is a famous figure.

In a late Victorian England where cars exist, if only for the rich, and telephones are a symbol of wealth, a progressive spirit has led to the appearance of acceptance. But though certain laws have been repealed it doesn't mean people's attitudes have changed or that class differences don't still exist. Will is content to serve his gentleman with no expectations of anything more. He only wants his master to be happy. Will makes Charlie smile but master and servant is all they can ever be, or is it?

Price: FREE. Everyone's favorite word! But if you like it and are curious about this Peter and Sebastian that Will mentions, then skip on over to

With Everything I Have

Description: Sebastian has a problem. He's in love with his best friend Peter and has been since their schooldays when they were outcasts together. His pining is so obvious that all of London knows, even his frustrated mother who just wants him to be happy. The only person who doesn't know is Peter. An abusive childhood with a controlling father left Peter emotionally detached and socially anxious and now he mostly hides himself away in his house where he designs the unique, fast cars that are status symbols among the town's elite. People would kill to own a single one of Peter's cars. Sebastian owns four. The meaning in that is obvious to everyone but Peter.

In a late Victorian England where cars exist, even though they aren't exactly comfortable, and computers allow the shy to avoid human contact , a progressive spirit has led to a begrudging acceptance of the sexuality of certain members of society. The sodomy laws have been repealed so that two men might spend the rest of their lives together, but that is no guarantee of happiness. Peter risks his neck driving at dangerous speeds for fun but sees passion as something to be frightened of. Sebastian has been struggling to get Peter to realize his own feelings for years but he is starting to worry that it may never happen. Peter seems to want no part of the future that Sebastian is offering him, on the surface at least. But a future without Sebastian might be something that not even a mind like Peter's can imagine.

Price: $1.99 But um, there's feelings! And smut! And suspenders... which... okay thanks to Selenographics and Wicklow, I have kind of a kink for now. hmmm Peter and Sebastian need some more smut. Maybe I will commentfic that with Selenographics when I get bored.

Current Mood: artistic
Current Music: Long Time Gone-The Everly Brothers

Oh, Rhoades, you sly, sexy scoundrel!

I just want people to read my steampunk thing with Wicklow and Rhoades so that they can lust over the other characters like I do right now!!! Whyyyyy? I need my pain and love for them to be shared by others!

I mean honestly, when you accidentally make every character in your story crazy hot in different ways and you imagine all their epic loves but at the same time, just picturing all the monkey sex fanfic that I hope some of you are inspired to write, well... good luck keeping your chonies on. (If that sentence made no sense, remember I am extremely tired.)

Of course, even if Dreamspinner wants the thing (so far I have heard nothing. Not even a reply to report receipt) it will be forever until it comes out. Forever, I say! And yeah okay that depends on people also reading the thing and then liking the thing. That part might be tricky. Sigh. Hmmm I'm probably going to have to fic them all myself, and no one will have the slightest idea what I am talking about. Sadface.

Before I get too upset about my eternal dorkiness, I should explain a few other things.

See, I wrote this Wicklow and Rhoades steampunk saga as a short story for Dreamspinner's steampunk anthology. Only my reader was like... "No, this needs to be longer. I need to know all about these two delightful muffins." (Only she's British, so those might not have been her exact words.) So it ended up much longer. But meanwhile, because I was trying to get a feel for steampunk, I wrote two other short stories.

The first was a steampunk Play It Again, Charlie AU, with Will the terrible valet and Charlie as his gentleman. The second was a story set in that same world about two other characters. I didn't know what to do with them, so I put them up on Smashwords. You can check them out if you like. One of them is even free! They don't have covers yet. Next week probably. R. Cooper on Smashwords. Proper links when I have proper covers. :)

Also I was going to do an "all the proceeds from the sales of this story go to charity" thing for the holidays (because I live in the US and our government cut foodstamps and other aid programs because our government is full of assholes) but I wouldn't even get the money from Smashwords until after the holidays, so instead I am just going to give to my local foodbanks some food and money. I encourage everyone to do the same. Seriously. Just drop something off in the donation bins in your grocery store or look up a local foodbank online. :):):)

This is more random than even my usual ramblings. I've been very busy, okay? My brain is little fried.

Current Mood: weird

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Repost Wicklow's Odyssey arranged marriage/historical AU
au repost-a/b/o arthur and bertie thoughts
repost- the zeki/theo arranged marriage au
(no subject)
repost - Mr. Parker's Murder Mysteries
repost- AU meet cute for Checking Out Love
repost - bodyguard au My Man Godric
repost- Arthur as a werewolf au
modern au - wicklows odyssey. Amelia/Pilar - repost
repost - au where Charlie is an actual prince
repost of original tumblr posts about wolf! wicklow
repost - Winter Prince modern day AU
repost- Werewolf Wicklow AU
Forget the Mistletoe!--and little Will and Charlie for you
Reminder, and the last Will and Charlie prompt
story thing and a charity thing--yes these two things are related
Audiobook! Plus something that is probably obvious to most of you.
I accidentally made a story--Merry Christmas!
Free story (and one inexpensive story)
if you would kiss me once more, we could find out if there are other things you would enjoy

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Page generated May. 22nd, 2025 04:32 am

the journal of r. cooper

writerish person and beautiful weirdo

Entries tagged with au

Repost Wicklow's Odyssey arranged marriage/historical AU

au repost-a/b/o arthur and bertie thoughts

repost- the zeki/theo arranged marriage au

(no subject)

repost - Mr. Parker's Murder Mysteries

repost- AU meet cute for Checking Out Love

repost - bodyguard au My Man Godric

repost- Arthur as a werewolf au

modern au - wicklows odyssey. Amelia/Pilar - repost

repost - au where Charlie is an actual prince

repost of original tumblr posts about wolf! wicklow

repost - Winter Prince modern day AU

repost- Werewolf Wicklow AU

Forget the Mistletoe!--and little Will and Charlie for you

Reminder, and the last Will and Charlie prompt

story thing and a charity thing--yes these two things are related

Audiobook! Plus something that is probably obvious to most of you.

I accidentally made a story--Merry Christmas!

Free story (and one inexpensive story)

if you would kiss me once more, we could find out if there are other things you would enjoy

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